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Marie stood a moment at the door of her little dressing-room, before running the gauntlet between its shelter and the platform, where, through the wreaths of smoke, she could see old Schultz's thick shoulders hunched over the piano keys. Familiarity had not begotten any feeling of comfort or tolerance for the conditions of this cheap, tawdry place. She hated the timbered walls with the trite phrases stenciled on them in black letters, the bare tables with rings, left by many steins, indelibly stamped on them, the shrill-voiced women, the men. She hated it all. But one must live.
Her rent at the Schultz's must be paid. They had scarcely enough for themselves. Her thoughts reverted to the one pleasant memory, the tall officer who had intervened between her and the insults of Frau Brower.